İngilizce
Sometimes I know the way You walk, up over the bay; It is a wind from that far sea That blows the fragrance of your hair to me.…
Charlotte Mary Mew was an English poet, whose work spans the cusp between Victorian poetry and Modernism. She was born in Bloomsbury, London the daughter of the architect Frederick Mew, who designed Hampstead town hall. Her father died in 1898 without making adequate provision for his family; two of her siblings suffered from mental illness, and were committed to institutions, and three others died in early childhood leaving Charlotte, her mother and her sister, Anne. Charlotte and Anne made a pact never to marry for fear of passing on insanity to their children. (One author calls Charlotte "chastely lesbian".) In 1894, Mew succeeded in getting a short story into The Yellow Book, but wrote very little poetry at this time. Her first collection of poetry, The Farmer's Bride, was published in 1916, in chapbook format, by the Poetry Bookshop; in the USA, it was entitled Saturday Market and published in 1921. It earned her the admiration of Sydney Cockerell. Her poems are varied: some of them (such as 'Madeleine in Church') are passionate discussions of faith and the possibility of belief in God; others are proto-modernist in form and atmosphere ('In Nunhead Cemetery'). Mew gained the patronage of several literary figures, notably Thomas Hardy, who called her the best woman poet of her day, Virginia Woolf, who said she was 'very good and quite unlike anyone else', and Siegfried Sassoon. She obtained a small Civil List pension with the aid of Cockerell, Hardy, John Masefield and Walter De La Mare. This helped ease her financial difficulties. After the death of her sister, she descended into a deep depression, and was admitted to a nursing home where she eventually committed suicide by drinking Lysol. Mew is buried in the northern part of Hampstead Cemetery, London NW6.)
Charlotte Mary Mew şiirleri
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Remember me and smile, as smiling too, I have remembered things that went their way-- The dolls with which I grew too wise to play-- Or over-wise--kissed, as children do,…
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Seventeen years ago you said Something that sounded like Good-bye; And everybody thinks that you are dead, But I.…
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Sometimes in the over-heated house, but not for long, Smirking and speaking rather loud, I see myself among the crowd, Where no one fits the singer to his song,…
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Sweetheart, for such a day One mustn't grudge the score; Here, then, it's all to pay, It's Good-night at the door.…
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Up here, with June, the sycamore throws Across the window a whispering screen; I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose, Than anything else on this earth that is out in green.…
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His heart to me, was a place of palaces and pinnacles and shining towers; I saw it then as we see things in dreams,--I do not remember how long I slept; I remember the tress, and t…
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Lord when I look at lovely things which pass, Under old trees the shadow of young leaves Dancing to please the wind along the grass, Or the gold stillness of the August sun on the…
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I so liked Spring last year Because you were here;- The thrushes too- Because it was these you so liked to hear-…
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Who thinks of June's first rose today? Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and rough bright hair will reach it down. In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far away…
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The town is old and very steep A place of bells and cloisters and grey towers, And black-clad people walking in their sleep— A nun, a priest, a woman taking flowers…
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Here, in the darkness, where this plaster saint Stands nearer than God stands to our distress, And one small candle shines, but not so faint As the far lights of everlastingness,…
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A purple blot against the dead white door In my friend's rooms, bathed in their vile pink light, I had not noticed her before She snatched my eyes and threw them back to me:…
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My face is against the grass - the moorland grass is wet - My eyes are shut against the grass, against my lips there are the little blades, Over my head the curlews call, And now t…
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My heart is lame with running after yours so fast Such a long way, Shall we walk slowly home, looking at all the things we passed Perhaps to-day?…
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